I sit and hear the pile-driver
Ramming, slamming down;
A thought’s root worth
Through yielding earth
To bloom one day above the town.
A flower of long thin sheets of glass,
Clean petals to catch the sun;
By night, bright buds of ice-cold light
Till man’s late deeds be done.

Striking, slamming, driving down,
It does not pause, nor cease;
Loud, unfeeling, heeding nought—
But work, the pride of peace.

I sit and watch the freight train charge
Heavily on through town;
Heavily, steadily, on it goes,
Packed with manhood’s earthly schemes,
With days of labor, months of dreams.
Rumble of steel over the tracks
Voices the will that never slacks,
And vaults of treasured goods go by
Like that one plane that’s pierced the sky.

I stand; the streak of white streams fast and free,
Straight, unstoppable, spearing the sky.
I reach, and seem to almost touch it,
While in my mind I slam, I charge, I fly!

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